My Big Day Out

The sun comes creeping over the city skyline. Its the early hours of the morning but already I can feel the force of the heat. Sure enough, I check the weather forecast for today and its expected to be in the 40s. This is great news to me as I have nothing for my day planned except for my attendence at the most highly anticipated music festival so far this year.

The Temper Trap. Muse. Dizzee Rascal. Passion Pit. Ladyhawke. Calvin Harris. Powderfinger. Girl Talk. Am I listing the days line up or scrolling through my Ipod? All I know is that I cannot wait for the day to begin.

I've got to finish work first. Foolishly I decided to cover the overnight shift and then go straight to the festival from there. Adrenaline will fuel me, I assured myself. Maybe that, and a little chemical assistance. Does that shock you? It needn't.

Yes, I am an occasional drug taker. I indulge every now and again, to make a situation more fun, to make people seem more interesting, to make myself a little wilder. As long as I never cross that line where I NEED to escape from reality, I think it harms no one. Altering reality is fine.

So begins my day of fun. It helps I have two willing partners in crime who match me in action, from lines to outfits and spritzing of perfume. We dont often hang out, but when situations like this arise, we fit together like a perfectly molded jigsaw. Sometimes the picture aint so pretty though.

By now its late morning and the heat is drilling onto us with a ferocity that is only just bearable. Im glad its this rather than raining though - Glastonbury it is not.

My heart is racing all day though, and its not just from the drugs or the millions of drug dogs and police around. The male outfit of choice seems to be checked shorts, a white singlet and a fedora of some type. This is exactly what my ex chose to wear almost every day. So all around me I see him. Lining up at the bar. Walking towards a stall. Throwing his head back with laughter. Dancing along to a song i know he loves.

Of course I know its not him. The hair colour is wrong. The shoulders are not wide enough. The smile, although sometimes welcoming and daring, is never his. But for a tiny second, I see him in everyone that walks past.

Then of course, it happens. Dancing away to the maestro that is Calvin Harris, I see the back of a head. I would recognise those shoulders, that dance move, that uninhibited smile anywhere. It IS him. And I feel like I need to throw up.

I stand stock still for what seems like forever. Then realising my friends are looking at me in a concerned manner, I tell them I'll be right back and disappear a little ways into the crowd. From this vantage point I'm free to stare at him and take it all in. It takes every fibre of my being to not run towards him and bury my face into his neck and cry. It really does. I want to touch him so badly I can feel a physical pain in my chest.

Luckily there is pain. Something stopped me from running over to him. The memory of the pain he has caused me, I have caused him. And so in the midst of thousands of gleeful dancers under pulsating lights and writhing bodies - somewhere deep down inside me, I take my first baby step towards letting him go.

Thats not to say when i returned to my friends it still wasnt burning in my mind. So I danced with forced gusto, I laughed a little hysterically when something was shouted towards my ear, I cast covert glances towards him, only a few desperate feet away. It would have been so easy to walk down that path.

But this is the path he has chosen to take, and so I must walk down another.

Scratch that - i refuse to walk. No one ever said I wasnt allowed to dance my way down that path. So dance I did. And shall continue to do.

Good luck in life and love,

Honey xx